


you thought the lions were bad

by mutemelody



Series: a study in humanity [3]
Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angels Don't Know How To Emotion, Biblical Inaccuracy (Probably), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Internal Conflict, Light Angst, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, but Michael's trying bless him
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-13 01:05:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18458300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mutemelody/pseuds/mutemelody
Summary: Something rises in him - unnamed, unknown,unbidden.She does not seem to notice as she loosens her grip and lets their hands slips away, but something in him rips open when she does. He feelsoff- unbalanced,unsure.He feels lost in enemy territory.(Perhaps he is. Perhaps these...feelingsinvading his mind and heart and grace were an enemy invasion.)(Maybe he’s been fighting a battle and hasn’t realized it.)





	you thought the lions were bad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick Notes:  
> -The title of this story + its chapters come from the song "Daniel in the Den" by Bastille.  
> -At this time with Lucifer, the events of s02e06: Monster are taking place, with all alterations being attributed to the fact that Uriel did not in fact die. Lucifer was still, however, noticeably down (but nowhere close to the near-suicidal emotional state he was in canon) leading to Linda pressing and him revealing his true face to her. I would have included this episode in this AU, but...there just wasn't enough diversion from canon.
> 
> WARNINGS + ADDITIONAL NOTES FOR THIS CHAPTER CAN BE FOUND IN THE ENDNOTES

**** Father does not call him when he decides to stay on the mortal plane for longer, and Michael knows that that is a sign of approval. Or, rather, a sign that he does not  _ disapprove _ , which is adequate enough in Michael’s mind. Father rarely ever states His opinion or favor in an explicit manner. That is why his siblings seek him out often in the Silver City - he has become well-versed in the language that He speaks and can interpret His signs with ease others lack.

(He feels that that is all that he has done since Lucifer Fell. It is untrue, of course, since Father has had him carry out His will among humanity several times since then, but those instances do not stick out sharply in his mind. They do not seem like times worth mentioning, which is foolish, as Father’s will is always important.)

(But they just...do not feel real, in a strange manner of speaking. Not a conducive part of his reality.)

(Lucifer’s Fall certainly feels real, no matter how much it should be otherwise.)

He is an archangel at full grace, so he does not require rest or nourishment. Well, he does, but not at the constant intake-outtake rate that humanity needs to upkeep. It would be many decades before he even begins to feel signs of fatigue or hunger. By that time, he would have returned home. To stay away from Heaven for that long is simply not an option.

He occupies himself primarily by walking amongst the humans and observing them in their day-to-day life. He stays away from Light and Lucifer, still unsure of how to conduct himself around the fallen archangel. He also does not make any attempts to alert Mother or Amenadiel to his presence. Amenadiel doubtlessly has questions he will not know how to answer (why would Father make His oldest, a loyal son,  _ lose his wings? _ ) and Mother…

He does not want to see Mother. Not after the last words She spoke to him. He has nothing to say to Her, and Her words mean nothing to him. He has no desire to hear her whispers of dissonance.

He also does not see Azrael again, but that is unsurprising. She is remarkably busy in making sure all the souls go where they must. She is the one who stops the wrongly guilt-filled from going to Hell and those who have become so corrupt that they no longer feel guilt to be barred from Heaven. Without her, chaos and discord would be allowed to perpetuate unchecked.

He understands the latter situation well enough. He has kept a minimal watch on humanity for only a few millennia, too preoccupied in other matters to truly watch it carefully, and even he is aware of how deep human depravity can go. It is unsurprising that some arise so twisted that they believe they deserve the divinity of Heaven. This harsh disillusion the result of abusing absolute freedom, of mistaking it for the lack of consequence.

The former situation escapes his comprehension in its entirety. He does not understand how a soul could value itself so lowly, to place unwarranted blame and guilt on itself to the degree that  _ Hell  _ is their destination. How do those emotions even arise? 

He walks through the streets, and the lack of attention given to him is a complete change from the constant observation he was under in the Silver City. He is rarely spared a glance, and even then it is not for long. In Heaven, it hadn’t been in a malicious or harmful manner, but rather he was just...perpetually placed in the perception of all. He was something to be considered, respected,  _ emulated. _

Here, the only scrutiny on him seems to be from Father, and Michael finds that he prefers it this way. It is humbling in a way that puts his grace at ease. Relaxing, in a bizarre way.

It has only been a few days - perhaps a week? He hasn’t been paying too much attention as it has been so little time from his perspective and his grasp on human terms of time is rather rough - when he sees the ugliest side of humanity firsthand.

He had been merely walking (which feels extraordinarily different on Earth than Heaven, for some reason that escapes his knowledge, and is  _ that  _ not fascinating in itself?) when he hears a sound that is unmistakably one of conflict. 

He - a sword by namesake, a soldier by creation - immediately seeks it out. What else could he possibly do?

He is met with the sight of an automobile drive by him, the glint of light reflected off of metal and plastic obscuring any details that could have been procured by the drive-by. All he learns is that these are undoubtedly the perpetrators of any crimes and that they are clearly humans.

He looks to his right and sees chaos and blood.

An urge rises within him, too primal and instinctual for him to feel comfortable. It feels all-consuming, crude,  _ raw.  _ His grace feels harsh at the edges, longing to be wielded, to  _ strike. _

He does not know the name for this emotion, or, at least, does not know it well enough to assign it a name. The closest he can think of is the righteous fury that Father held back in the days of old, but he does not feel particularly virtuous with this unknown emotion pumping through his body. He does not feel divine.

In fact, it reminds him of what he thinks of when he pictures demons and hell.

(He’s seen Lucifer display this emotion before, but he refuses to think of it as the Devil’s creation. If anything, it is the child of humanity like the rest of these sentiments and has affected Lucifer in a manner similar to how it is now affecting Michael.)

He resists the urge to release his wings, to release this  _ feeling  _ and charge after the humans in the automotive that caused this meaningless violence and make them face justice. He tenses the muscles in his back, ready to show these  _ pathetic creatures _ why he is the  _ Sword  _ of  _ God Himself. _

_ “I need some help over here!” _ The yell is harsh, full of authority and knowledge and  _ need,  _ and he turns to see a woman leaning over a bleeding man, pressing her hands into upper arm and letting them be stained red.

He does not hesitate as he changes direction, does not hesitate in his large stride as he forces his wings to stay hidden, does not hesitate to stand besides the woman and answer her cry.

“What assistance do you require?” He asks, because he is not Raphael, does not have the Healing of God in his name, nor the power in his feathers. He does not know human health, nor the way to heal any other creature besides to…

No, that is unthinkable. Not an option. Maybe for one of his siblings,  _ maybe,  _ but for a human?

“Here,” The woman says -  _ commands -  _ and grabs his hands and directs them downwards. He obeys, because perhaps this is something that words cannot convey or some other nuance that he is unaware of.

But then she removes both her hands and forces his onto the hole that has been ripped through the man, and he stares as they become covered in blood. It’s not the first time his hands have been tainted, not at all, but this is...different.

“Apply pressure. Firm but not too hard.” She orders, and Michael has never obeyed an order that is not from Father but he finds his hands doing so not of his own conscious volition. “Based on the entry wound he’s in danger of bleeding out.” She explains, sitting up slightly and taking off her belt. “I’m going to move you slightly - are you ready?

“Y-Yeah. Just do it.” The bleeding man grits out, and the woman moves the arm carefully, causing him to cry out in pain.

Michael just feels...odd. He has never taken a command not expressly from Father, never held a human and let his hands turn the color of their blood in any way but to harm. 

He has never knelt - been on  _ their level - _ and  _ helped. _

The woman ties the belt around his arm, above where the wound is. She secures it tightly and, before Michael can even wonder what she desires to accomplish by doing that, turns over her shoulder and yells, “Where’s that ambo?”

He is about to inquire who she is talking to, who could have an answer to her strange question, but then sirens answer her reply, and he realizes  _ ambo  _ stands for  _ ambulance.  _ He realizes that at her request one materialized for her. Her call was answered without hesitation.

So he stares. Her hair is darker than Azrael’s, long and tied up above her head in a strange, rounded manner. Her eyes are similarly dark, but it is the darkness that lies between the suns and planets rather than the kind that blocks out their light.

There is a cross around her neck. She is one of humanity that believes in Father’s grace. He is unsurprised by this discovery - he could not picture her as anything but a follower of Father.

He gets replaced by a group of humans who emerge from the ambulance, all dressed similarly and with that determination in their eyes that was also in the woman’s. The determination to hurry and help, the determination to  _ heal  _ and  _ save. _

He had only seen that look in Raphael’s eyes, but that was because Father put it there Himself. Humanity had replicated it themselves - created that piece of divinity and nurtured it inside them.

(So where did these emotions come from? Was it really all born from their innate rejection of compliance? The fact that their very essence did not call for them to obey?)

(Was that all they needed to do all of... _ this?) _

He does not know how to react to...everything. To the emotions in her eyes and the behavior she displayed and every unknown feeling she stirs up in him. His hands are bloody from  _ healing  _ and she is standing while  _ he  _ is on his knees and-

And he does not  _ understand.  _ What is humanity doing to him? What are they changing him into?

What is he now?

She reaches out a hand to him, and he looks at it for a long moment before slowly grasping it. It feels odd, with both their hands covered in blood. She sets her weight and attempts to provide him aid in standing upright, but he does not let her. He does not take any of her strength, just accepts her guidance without a true thought. 

His mind is consumed with their intertwined hands. He does not know the last time he truly touched a being outside of combat. He has never done so with a human before, he knows that much.

It ...could have been before Lucifer Fell.

(It certainly was.)

Something rises in him - unnamed, unknown,  _ unbidden.  _ She does not seem to notice as she loosens her grip and lets their hands slips away, but something in him rips open when she does. He feels  _ off -  _ unbalanced,  _ unsure. _

He feels lost in enemy territory.

(Perhaps he is. Perhaps these... _ feelings  _ invading his mind and heart and grace were an enemy invasion.)

(Maybe he’s been fighting a battle and hasn’t realized it.)

She looks away, and the moment that he is outside of her field of vision, he slips through planes, stretches his wings, and  _ flies. _

(He realizes later that she had, in effect, gotten the Sword of God to flee with a few words and simple touch, but he is too busy drowning in unfamiliar, foreign feelings to have any thoughts on the matter. He is too lost on a battlefield, too engaged in combat.)

He steers himself unconsciously, too hyper-fixated on the red, red,  _ red _ on his hands to actually pay mind to his direction. He ends up back on the rooftop Azrael led him to, and it takes a moment to realize that he had shifted back to the mortal plane when he was lost in the haze of warfare.

He stands there for a moment, before his legs bring him closer to the edge. He draws his wings back in, aware that it is now daytime and his wings would be incredibly clear in the bright sunlight.

There’s a railing at the edge of the roof - for safety purposes, doubtlessly. It’s slightly odd to think of humans wingless, even as all this time. They are naturally unable to fly, to glide, to  _ soar.  _

For creatures with free will, this seems like a rather large impediment to their freedom. To only be confined to the ground, to be restricted by things such as  _ gravity  _ or  _ physical laws. _

(He refuses to think about how Lucifer is also forced to abide by such laws now. It’s not the same as being human, he knows, but it’s...too close to think about.)

He leans on the railing (guardrails? He thinks that’s what they’re called. Or is that something else?), allowing his body to extend over it slightly so he has a better view. He imagines that this view must be rather spectacular to human eyes. It’s...adequate, he supposes. A lot of the allure must come from those who only can view the landscape from the sky with the assistance of machinery of the sort.

He looks at his hands. Covered in blood. Bloodstained.  
  
Her hands had been bloody as well, but thinking of them also as  _ bloodstained  _ seems...wrong. Too permanent. The only blood on her hands came from helping,  _ healing.  _

He is the  _ Sword  _ of  _ God.  _ A warrior, a soldier, a  _ commander. The  _ commander. He leads armies, kills in his Father’s name. He is an extension of Father’s righteous fury. He is-

He is not her. 

The statement is so obvious, so evident, so clear, but yet...there’s something more to it. Something deeper, more complex - something he understands and registers yet simultaneously cannot put a name or label to.

(How do humans get anything done, with all of these distracting, conflicting emotions? How do they operate while constantly fighting an internal war?)

“I met a human today,” He states, not moving as air that was displaced and now washes over him. He flexes his hands once, as if to test to see if the human blood on them has impeded his movement in some manner. It just feels odd, as the cool night wind has dried it slightly.

“That’s to be expected,” The newly arrived angel points out, and Michael hears the familiar sound of wings retracting as his brother moves to stand besides him. “This is their plane, after all. Their home.”

He ignores how  _ something  _ inside of him protests when his brother takes a position over an arm’s reach away. It’s logical, of course - the last time they met were under tenser circumstances, and all of his siblings are more wary of him than not. The only siblings that treated him anywhere close to the intimacy that human siblings have been Lucifer  _ before  _ and Azrael now.

(Or was it just that everyone had grown distant to him after Lucifer’s Fall?)

“What is your punishment?” He asks.

Uriel looks at him, then at the blood on his hands, before looking back over the railing. There is something in his eyes when he sees the red that Michael still cannot decipher, but it seems his brother has assumed it was from being a sword rather than a healer.

He cannot blame him. He would have thought it impossible himself a mere human hour ago.

“Father did not say much,” Uriel says. “He  _ did  _ send me back here, however.”

Finally - something Michael understands. Father.

“He wants Lucifer to decide your punishment,” He says, forcing himself to look away from hands finally, and at Light, standing only a little ways away. He wonders why the word is written in a different human tongue than the one humans in this area seem to speak, but it  _ is  _ humanity, after all. Perhaps this is commonplace. He  _ has  _ heard a multitude of tongues since he’s arrived.

Uriel hesitates, before nodding slowly. He then hangs his head slightly, and Michael looks at him questioningly. There is a myriad of emotions on his brother’s face, and he doesn’t recognize them at this speed and complexity, but something in him yearns to do... _ something. _

He thinks for a moment - thinks of Lucifer, of the woman that he had wanted to save. He thinks of Azrael, and the human woman he himself had encountered earlier.

He wants...to help.

“You are the angel of repentance,” He says, and the words feel odd and awkward in his mouth. Uriel’s head snaps up to look at him at his words, so he makes himself continues. “Repentance is regret and remorse. You know these things better than the other angels.” 

_ Do not let it consume you, brother.  _ He wants to say, but he simply cannot. It’s not him, it’s not his nature, it’s not his namesake or his grace or a part of Father’s plan but it’s also not anathema. It’s just a part of humanity that has infected him and he wants to embrace it in some capacity but he just  _ cannot  _ do so because he is  _ Michael  _ and he does  _ not  _ lose battles, even when they are inside of himself.

Uriel looks at him for a long moment, but Michael does not say anything, nor betray any of the emotions whirling around inside of him. Rather, he directs his view to a point on the horizon, and says nothing more.

Uriel tilts his head slightly, before nodding.

“I will go see Lucifer now.” Is all he says.

Michael rigidly nods. Uriel leaves.

He thinks that went...adequately.

He sighs and looks back at his hands. They are still so red.

He had tried. He had made an attempt. 

(Humans tend to believe that that counts for something, so perhaps it was enough for now.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS:  
> -Shooting of a civilian by unknown perpetrators  
> -Field treatment of said civilian and the use of an impromptu tourniquet  
> -Repeated mentions/musings on blood.
> 
> More Notes:  
> -The people who shot the unnamed man are irrelevant to the overall plot and will never really be explored in detail. Just imagine the case was never put in Chloe or Dan's lap, but some other detective or someone solved it. The civilian was fine and lived a long happy life with a husband and two rabbits. Yay for closure!

**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr is mutemelody.tumblr.com talk to me there


End file.
